Broken
by Kansas42
Summary: Post JCat. Michael and Lincoln talk in the infirmary. Michael angst.


Author's note: This takes place sometime after J-Cat. Only spoilers up to there; everything written here is pure hypothesis that won't actually take place into the show. And I don't own any characters or anything. As if that wasn't obvious.

"So," Lincoln says, "You were faking it the entire time."

He's sitting a couple of beds away, handcuffed and out of reach. The Pope finally gave in and let him see me, now that I'm back and out of the "Whack Shack". Lincoln's supposed to have a bad stomachache, ("_could be my appendix, Sir"_)but the Pope and Sara and I all know that he doesn't. Even the guard who's standing impassively outside the door knows that he doesn't. He doesn't care. He's getting paid to stand around, and besides, he trusts Lincoln enough to give us a moment of privacy.

He probably shouldn't. In fact, he definitely shouldn't, but I'm not going to complain.

"All this time, I thought . . .and you were faking it."

Lincoln sounds pissed, but I can tell that he's relieved. "Yes," I say, and glance through the window where Sara is. She's pretending to be looking for some insulin, as if she doesn't know exactly where it, and everything else is in the infirmary, at all times. There's a small smile on her face as she gives us some time to talk. Her smile makes me smile. Lincoln mistakes this for a smirk.

"Hey," he says, and I turn back to him. "I was fucking worried about you. I thought you had, you know . . ."

"Gone off the deep end," I finish for him, and he closes his eyes. I can't help but add, "That was sort of the idea."

"Godammit, Michael," Lincoln says, and his eyes snap open again as he glares at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sara standing straighter, either hearing or just sensing the tension in this room. She's probably deciding if she should have "found" the insulin yet, and I know my time to talk with Lincoln openly is running out. I return my full attention to him, and the anguish on his face startles me.

"Don't you _ever_ do that to me again," Lincoln says, and he turns his head away, as if somehow he doesn't have the strength to look at me anymore. His eyes fall on the floor, and for a second, just a second, they seem too glossy, too wet, and too dark.

"I. . ." He breaks off, starts again. "I couldn't handle it if you . . .if you lost it. If you broke. You can't break, not because of me. If anything happened to you. . ."

Lincoln breaks off again and makes a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh if you weren't looking at him. "Jesus," he says. "Things _have _happened to you. Your back, you fucking toes---"

"Lincoln," I try to say, but he doesn't listen.

He looks up at me, and what tears I thought I saw are gone, as if they never existed. Maybe they didn't. But the anguish that I saw before, the _pain_, is still etched within the lines of his face, as if it has seeped in. "It's all because of me," Lincoln says. "It's my fault."

"It's not---"

"Don't tell me that," Lincoln says, practically growls, and I shut my mouth. "Don't tell me that it's not my fault. I know it is."

_But you're wrong_, I think and it takes everything within me to keep myself from saying so. _You're where you are because of me. Can't you understand that? You're where you are because of me._

He won't listen to that, though. I know it. So, instead, I try to reassure him. "I'm fine."

Sara walks back into the room, then, the syringe filled with the "missing" insulin within her hand. "I'll be with you in just a second, Lincoln," she says, and I don't know why. We keep up with these false appearances, and there's nobody watching us. Maybe it's the only way we know how to function anymore. We only seem to look in each other's eyes for brief moments, and then we have to turn away.

I turn away from Sara now, as she stares at me and as I roll up my sleeve, unasked. I can't look at Lincoln either right now. . .it's too hard, too much. . .so I find a spot on the floor that I can look at, a spot that demands nothing from me. I hear the tapping of Sara's finger against the needle, and then Lincoln's voice.

He asks, "Are you?"

I don't know what he's asking at first, and I have to replay the earlier conversation. _Don't tell me it's not my fault. I know it's my fault._

_I'm fine._

_Are you?_

Are you?

I brave a quick glance up from the safety of the floor into Lincoln's pain-etched face. I can read his eyes as easily as the map upon my skin, easier even. He's asking the same questions I've had to ask myself.

Are you okay? Are you really? You _were_ just faking the crazy stuff . . .right? Right?

I could tell him the truth. I could say, "Yeah. Yeah, I was faking it. The total catatonia, the trip to the Whack Shack. I was faking it. At least, I was faking some of it.

Except for when I was tearing my sweater to shreds, desperately trying to see the layout, the part of my skin that had burned away. Except for when I was pounding my fist into the wall, needing the pain to try and take away the sheer _noise_ of my own thoughts. Except for smearing my blood on the wall, remaking the diagram, the layout yet again. Except for trying to find answers in my blood, and wondering if I would find more if more of it spilt out.

Except for _I put my blood into this_, over and over and over again.

Except for when something within me snapped, when I couldn't think or plan or move. Except when my mind slid a little, when I had to fade away a little, leaving nothing but a body behind.

I was faking it all except for when I totally lost it. Except for the time that I kind of lost my mind.

Eventually, things started coming back to me. After Sara left but before the Pope arrived . . .I started to remember things, who I was, how I got there. I remembered the first day in Fox River, realizing what I had actually done. I remembered Haywire seeing the map, and how I got rid of him, so as not to damage the plan.

I remembered meeting Sara, and saving her during the riot. I remembered Sucre's girlfriend, Westmoreland's daughter, your son.

I remembered that you were still here, in just the other cell. I remembered that you were innocent, that you were waiting, waiting for me. I remembered that I had to save you, that you were where you were because of me. I remembered I couldn't break now, not when there was still a job to do.

If I succeed, and I get you out, maybe then I can finally crack. Maybe you can be my older brother and hold on to me as I fall apart.

And if I don't succeed, if you die, then I know I'll finally snap. I'll just let myself fade away again, and this time I won't come back.

And it's all for you, Lincoln, everything I've done has been for you. But it's not your fault, never your fault. I'm where I am because of you. You're where you are because of me.

And I've made my peace with that.

"Michael?"

I pull my mind back to where I am. The infirmary. I can tell both Sara and Lincoln are staring at me, waiting for an answer. Maybe waiting to see if I've slipped away again, if I'm already too far gone to be saved. Maybe they're waiting to see if I've already broken.

But I haven't. Not yet. Not while there are still things to do.

"Yes," I respond to Lincoln, as I feel the needle go into my arm. "Yes, I'm okay."

And I am, for now. I'll be okay, for now.

Later I can fall apart.

Later I can break.


End file.
